


Diamonds and Rust

by sweetfire



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Keith is a grumpy scrapyard owner, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Meetings, M/M, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Shiro (Voltron) Has a Large Cock, Shiro rides a motorcycle, Shiro shows up to shake things up, Spit As Lube, Stargazing, Top Shiro (Voltron), Unprotected Sex, kitchen sink sex, riding off into the sunset, they're made for each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:35:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28630377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetfire/pseuds/sweetfire
Summary: A handsome stranger. The middle of nowhere. Rust, old cars, too-long grass. Keith is lonely, maybe. Maybe he just wants to get fucked. Either way, Shiro’s gonna take care of it.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 54
Kudos: 297





	Diamonds and Rust

**Author's Note:**

> In which Shiro exemplifies the lessons of If You Give a Mouse a Cookie, but it’s okay because Keith wants this particular mouse to stick around. 
> 
> This was supposed to just be smut, but because it’s Sheith they insisted on falling in love too. I should’ve expected it.
> 
> Edit: Now with AMAZING art by @sepiacigarettes on twitter, oh my gosh??? [Feast your eyes](https://mobile.twitter.com/sepiacigarettes/status/1347839501784084482?s=21)

He arrives on a Sunday.

The days of the week don’t have any particular meaning or distinction to Keith, but this one, he’ll remember.

It’s a hot day – but that’s about like saying it’s a day where the sun rose in the morning, here in the desert.

Keith woke up earlier than usual this morning. It was those damn chickens making noise, squawking inconsiderately outside his open window – the ones that seem to have a penchant for wandering around his property, pecking at the sand. Probably looking for food, thinking the piles of miscellaneous junk extending out from the back and sides of Keith’s house, somehow both sprawling outwards and reaching skywards, look promising. But they’re out of luck. It’s just scraps, metal and wood and plastic and rust. Sometimes he takes pity on them, tosses some torn up pieces of just-this-side-of-too-stale bread off his front porch. It’s probably just keeping them around longer, he realizes. But he doesn’t stop.

The sun was already shining when he woke, filling his room and making him scrunch up his face at the rude awakening, groaning and rolling over to press his face into the pillow. He hates getting up early, and there’s no point in making himself, nowhere he has to be and no one he has to answer to. That’s why he doesn’t own an alarm clock.

Still, in a way it’s nice to have the full day ahead of him, instead of the remnants of an afternoon when he begrudgingly rolls out of bed at noon, like usual.

After resigning himself to his fate, giving up on falling back to sleep, he shuffled into his small kitchen, rubbing his hands roughly over his face and yawning, long and wide. He caught a glimpse of himself in the green glass of his fruit bowl and snorted lowly at himself. His hair – too long, he knows – was sticking up every which way, red lines etched into his cheek from the pillow. It didn’t matter much; not likely he would see anyone today, anyhow. Just as well, he thought to himself.

Now, coffee finally in hand, he stands at his sink, gazing out the kitchen window over the dull rust-colored sand and long, dry grass he calls his own as he waits for his synapses to start firing again. He should probably cut that grass, make the place more appealing to customers, or whatever. He won’t.

It’s not like anyone ever comes here who doesn’t already know him, anyway, and they know that they’re coming for the quality, cheap materials in his scrapyard and not his customer service. The thought of it makes him laugh gruffly to himself, and his voice comes out scratchy with disuse. 

The coffee is absolute crap, but his tastebuds are used to it. He drinks it down, black, almost without wincing at all.

Slowly reentering the world of the living, he makes his way out the front door and stands on the porch, where he thinks about starting working. It’s not like there’s a whole lot to do; he’s plenty well-stocked, so he’ll hold off on scrounging for scraps for a while. Old Carl Whitmer drove through the other day and asked about a part that Keith told him he’d check on, so he supposes he should start with that.

Draining the last dregs of his coffee from the stained mug and setting it precariously on the railing, Keith closes his eyes and stretches, one arm reaching high in the air as he arches his back, the other hand coming to scratch at the light dusting of dark hair leading down the sliver of his lower stomach revealed by his lifting shirt.

As he does so, a low rumbling reaches his ears, growing louder, and he scrunches his eyebrows in a perplexed frown before he relents and opens his eyes, releasing his stretch.

It takes him a few blinks to be sure of what he’s seeing, but there’s no mistaking it. There’s a man on a motorcycle stopped in his front yard, a cloud of dust settling around him. Keith doesn’t recognize him, which is unusual in and of itself. He’s big. That’s what strikes Keith first. He can tell he’s tall, even though he’s still sitting straddled on his bike, and the rest of him is…well. Wide. The strong kind.

Keith’s already fighting to keep his eyebrows from flying up his forehead when the man removes his helmet, immediately running a hand through his hair to fix it as if by impulse. Keith tilts his head at the shock of white tufting out from the otherwise black and close-cropped hair, the pink scar slicing straight across his nose. He blinks once, slowly, and shifts on his feet.

The man’s eyes find his quickly and he grins, bright and disarming, and Keith has _certainly_ never seen him before. He must be passing through. If a man like that lived in any of the tiny, scattered towns around here, he would know.

Keith straightens in preparation as the man swings one long leg over his bike and begins to approach, expression open and friendly, and he realizes much too late that there’s a pretty good chance that he’s about to have to _talk, shit_.

“Hi,” the man greets, stopping a few feet from Keith’s porch, keeping a distance that looks unintentional, but that Keith bets is calculated. His sunny demeanor doesn’t slip as Keith fails to respond in any way, frozen, but probably just appearing unfriendly, realizing with embarrassment that he’s started scowling.

“Sorry to bother you,” the man continues, and _god, his voice is hot too, what the fuck,_ “but my bike is…well.” He turns and gestures limply and both their eyes slide to the motorcycle – a damn nice looking one, Keith notes, but one currently surrounded by the remnants of a black smoke that it has clearly been spurting out. Keith hums, a low noise of acknowledgement, probably more caveman than human, but he congratulates himself on the forward progress.

“It looks like there’s a good chance you might have what I need somewhere…in there.” He gestures at the disorganized expanse around them, smiling up at Keith hopefully.

Fine, okay, this is something he can do. This is pretty much all he _does_ do. He can pull it together and do it for an incredibly hot stranger, too.

Keith nods, glancing back to the bike and giving himself a second to gather his words.

“Yeah, I can help you with that. Let me see what I have.”

The man beams, and Keith has to look away quickly, because whatever the fuck that just made happen inside his chest does not seem healthy. With that, he hops down the single step off his porch and makes his way around to the area of his scrapyard where he knows the part he needs will be. It’s an organized chaos.

“I’m Shiro, by the way,” comes the man’s voice close behind him, and Keith jumps slightly, not expecting to be followed. He looks over his shoulder and the man – Shiro, apparently – looks startled, too, leaning back and holding up his hands placatingly.

“Sorry—” he starts, but Keith stops him, shaking his head. God, he’s, uh…rusty. With humans.

“No, it’s – I’m Keith.”

The grin is back, even wider now, Keith suspects. It makes little lines feather out from the corners of his eyes, Keith notes, and he decides that is not fair at all.

“Nice to meet you, Keith,” Shiro says with a nod, and Keith turns back around before the man can see his blush.

It doesn’t take long to find the part they’re looking for, and not long after that for Shiro to get to work right there, in Keith’s front yard. Keith can’t bring himself to go inside, so he just stands there on his porch, arms crossed, leaning back against the railing and…watching.

Shiro’s hot, that much was clear from the outset, but that didn’t prepare Keith for the revelation that was watching him like _this_. On his knees, getting dirt on the beat-up jeans slung too low on his hips. His t-shirt’s a little too tight, and it strains even more over the muscles of his broad back, his thick biceps, as they work, pulling and flexing visibly. Keith should probably go over there, offer to help. But that would compromise his view.

He’s probably being obvious, but he can’t bring himself to stop. At least he’s not drooling.

Shiro pauses to wipe sweat off his brow, the back of his neck, where it’s gathering and glistening under the beating sun. Keith licks his lips.

Occasionally, Keith catches quiet noises of effort on the light breeze, low grunts that make the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

As he continues to stand there, hopefully looking casual and disinterested, like he usually does, but actually frozen, fixated, Shiro starts throwing glances his way over his shoulder. Keith’s not sure how to read them, hasn’t entirely figured him out yet, but at least he doesn’t look annoyed, or disgusted. Maybe amused. There’s a curl to the corner of his mouth that’s almost dangerous. It makes Keith’s stomach tighten.

Each time Shiro looks his way, he drops his eyes, studying the pebbles in front of him, or the scuffed toes of his boots, pretending he wasn’t looking, even though he knows he’s not fooling either of them. It’s hot out, sure, but it doesn’t disguise the tell-tale feeling of heat rising in his cheeks whenever he feels Shiro’s eyes on him. He’s always hated his traitorous blush.

When Shiro finishes, he stands and revs the engine, checks that it’s fixed, and the flex of his wrist makes Keith’s breath catch. The engine growls happily, no longer spitting out black smoke, and Shiro turns to Keith with a wide smile, turning it off again. Keith keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the man’s face, not allowing himself to scan down his chest covered with soot marks, grease stains, the errant dirt that’s ubiquitous in the desert sticking to the sweat on his arms – shit, he’s definitely looking.

When he yanks his eyes back up to Shiro’s, there’s something in them he can’t interpret, but it makes him almost want to shy away, embarrassed and excited all at once.

“Do you think I could bother you for a glass of ice water?”

Keith doesn’t often allow people into his artless but loved little house. It’s his space, and he’s…well, prickly. He still isn’t sure about having Shiro in it, but it’s more significant than the man knows that he’s sitting here at Keith’s rickety kitchen table at all, looking for all the world like he might collapse the spindly chair beneath him, and gulping down the cold water like a man dying of thirst. Keith can’t _not_ watch the way his throat works around his swallows, track the thin trail of liquid that escapes out the corner of his mouth in his hurry and drips down the sharp line of his jaw. When he puts the glass down, the print left in the condensation by his hand seems huge. Altogether, it’s obscene.

The second glass of water goes down a little less ravenously, a little more civilized. As he drinks, he starts looking around the little kitchen, taking it in. He must notice the way Keith stiffens slightly – it’s not an intrusion, isn’t at all, but it feels like one because Keith is Keith – because he stops, and turns a considering gaze on Keith himself. When he does, Keith has half a mind to invite him to rifle through all his kitchen cabinets instead.

Keith doesn’t know if he looks as flustered as he feels, but he certainly doesn’t look as cool and apathetic as he usually prides himself on being, and having Shiro’s direct attention like this is something else entirely.

“You from around here?” Shiro asks, casually, like he knows to give Keith the option to shrug the question off with a non-answer, to avoid cornering him with even the simplest thing.

Keith narrows his eyes and leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He doesn’t know what to make of him. He can feel himself starting to let down a little bit of his guard, but he’s not sure if it’s justified, if it’s safe. They chat – well, Shiro chats, really, and coaxes Keith along, and Keith evaluates.

He considers himself a pretty good judge of character, and Shiro isn’t setting off any alarm bells. He’s polite, friendly, his expressions open and honest. Still, there’s some kind of edge to the way he sits there, confident and seemingly unbothered by the sheen of sweat and dirt now covering him, like he’s comfortable with it. Then there’s the particular glint to his eyes, just a hint of something behind them, that Keith catches just when his voice goes a bit lower, a bit more drawn out. There’s the way he’s shown up here on a motorcycle to a scrapyard in the Arizona desert; a little bit cowboy, jeans slung a little too low, eyes a little too bold. He’s good, a gentleman, but you can tell he’s dirty.

The conclusion excites Keith more than he’d like to admit.

Shiro’s artful in the way he makes conversation with Keith, finding out information without prying, without getting Keith’s hackles up. He’s still not completely sure he can trust him, but he can feel himself relaxing nevertheless.

When Shiro eventually sees himself out, after thanking Keith for the help and paying him, Keith follows him out onto the porch, lingering so he can watch him straddle his bike and rev it to life between those thick thighs. He’s not sure how well he’s hiding the hunger in his eyes. Whatever.

With a nod in Keith’s direction, Shiro kicks off, leaving a cloud of dust behind him.

Keith really does think that’s going to be the end of it. Figures Shiro’ll be heading out of town, moving onto whatever his real destination is, and he’ll never see him again.

He’s never claimed to always be right.

It’s late afternoon the next day when Keith hears that telltale rumble again. He’s in the back, in the middle of sorting through some of the car bumpers he’s accumulated, and when he rounds the house, Shiro’s already off his bike and striding towards the front porch. In his hands, for some reason, are a toolkit and a thin piece of wood, a couple of feet long.

“Uh, hi?” Keith greets.

“Oh, hey!” Shiro seems caught off guard, probably expecting Keith to be inside. “Keith, hi. I, uh…” He half holds up the items in his hands, looking down at them and then up at Keith as if that’s an explanation, and Keith merely raises an eyebrow. Shiro actually almost looks sheepish, a little unsure, which is not a look Keith would have expected to see fitted on his face.

“Well, when I was here yesterday, I noticed one of your railing posts is broken,” Shiro continues. He nods to the hanging-loose post that Keith is perfectly well aware of, thank you, but Keith bites his tongue, lets him finish. “I thought I’d come back and fix it, you know, as kind of a thank you.”

Keith has no idea what to make of this man. He doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with his porch. And he could damn well fix his own railing himself, anyway, and he’s sure Shiro knows that too. His brow scrunches up in confusion and into what’s close enough to a scowl, and he crosses his arms, probably looking standoffish and annoyed, though he’s not, really, for some reason.

“You already thanked me. With money.”

Whatever Keith looks like, it must be what Shiro was looking for, because the embarrassed look is gone and replaced by a shrug and a lopsided, mischievous grin. It’s cute. Dangerous. Damn him.

“Alright,” Keith huffs. “Fine, I guess. Thank you.”

Shiro smiles impossibly wider, and sets down his materials at the front steps to get to work.

Keith watches him the whole time. He justifies it to himself that he’d be crazy to let a practical stranger perform operations on his house without his supervision, but that’s fooling exactly no one. He makes himself feel better by scowling, arms crossed and one hip cocked as he watches the work.

Shiro’s showing off, Keith could swear. Grunting far more than must be necessary. Keith tries to pretend he’s unaffected.

After a while, though, he’s not sure why.

Once the new rail’s been set in place and tested with a couple hearty tugs from Shiro, he sits back on his heels, hands on his hips and head cocked to examine his work. Apparently satisfied, he nods decisively and moves to get up.

Keith’s not sure what strikes him. Not sure at what point a direct line opened up between his brain and his mouth, without a checkpoint for him to talk himself out of it, but he’s sure lucky it did.

“Can I offer you a cold beer?” he blurts out quickly as Shiro’s opening his mouth, like he has to get it out before the other man says anything.

Shiro blinks once, surprised. Then he grins like the cat that got the cream.

Keith suggests they drink the beers outside once he retrieves them from his fridge; he’s not sure why. Maybe because inside would be too close to what he wants. It’s not too hot today, the breeze warm but pleasant, so at least he can use the nice weather as an excuse.

They pull a cooler out in front of the porch and sit down on it, and Keith isn’t sure if he’s kicking himself or congratulating himself at the way sharing the seat brings them in such close proximity, shoulders brushing. Shiro pops the cap off his bottle on the corner of the cooler and holds a hand out in a silent offer to do the same for Keith, eyebrows raised almost in challenge. Keith scoffs; he can open his own beer, thank you, but finds himself handing it over anyway.

It opens with a telltale hiss, and the clink of the cap clattering to the ground is loud in the silence between them.

Keith takes a long sip, tilting his head back and savoring the sparkling feeling of fizz on his tongue, cold liquid filling his throat. When he opens his eyes again – he hadn’t meant to close them – he can sense Shiro staring at him out of the corner of his eye.

He takes a moment, staring out across the desert before them and pretending not to notice before he’ll meet Shiro’s gaze. Shiro’s feeling him out, he’s pretty sure. He’s not exactly experienced with this kind of thing, but he thinks they’re on the same page. He isn’t sure how to respond, except that he wants to encourage him. So when he does turn back to Shiro, he lowers his head a little, kinda looks up at him through his eyelashes. A little meek, a little willing.

Shiro bends, rests his elbows on his knees, and lets them fall wide, pressing against Keith’s thigh.

They drink, and talk, voices low to suit their proximity. It’s strangely intimate, not something Keith’s used to. Keith takes a breath, presses back against Shiro’s leg, and their eyes meet. Shiro’s pupils are wide. It’s bright outside.

When Keith first allows his gaze to flick down to Shiro’s lips, glistening wet from the beer he just sipped, just one quick, subtle glance, that seems to be all Shiro needs. Finally, he leans forward, confident – no slow testing, stopping and starting; once he’s started he just leans in almost all the way in one fell swoop, then stops, hovers for just a moment, close enough that Keith can feel the warm puff of his breath. He gives it a beat, just one, just to make sure, and when Keith doesn’t pull away, he closes the gap.

No one’s kissed Keith in quite a while. But no one’s _ever_ kissed him like _this_.

He expects it to be harder, more of a reflection of the desire he knows he sees in Shiro’s grey eyes. It’s not – It’s soft, gentle even. Like a hello. Shiro’s lips fit themselves to his and his flesh hand comes up to cup Keith’s jaw. It’s so big it covers his whole cheek, and Keith swears he might melt straight into the ground beneath them.

When Shiro pulls away after a too-short moment, Keith follows his lips involuntarily, pitching forward and almost losing balance. Shiro laughs, a breathless thing, and doesn’t go far, moves his fingers back to thread through Keith’s hair at the back of his neck and keep him close. He’s watching Keith’s mouth, where his lips are still parted, waiting. His eyes feel heavy, his cheeks hot. Shiro’s stolen his breath, but he only gives him a moment to try in vain to recover it before diving back in.

This time, it’s _filthy._

The fingers in his hair tighten, gripping the back of his neck to angle his head, letting Shiro get deeper. He coaxes Keith’s jaw to drop open and then he’s licking into his mouth, just as dirty as Keith knew he’d be. It kicks a moan straight from Keith’s chest with no chance for him to muffle it, sets his spine on fire. He’d be embarrassed by how wrecked he sounds if he wasn’t so – well, wrecked.

He’s leaning forward, his hand’s made its way to Shiro’s thigh to balance himself, and Shiro’s other hand has come up to his neck, cold metal thumb resting against his pulse point.

With an obscene smack, they break apart, both of their chests heaving.

“In – inside,” Keith pants.

Not needing to be told twice, Shiro jumps up, grabbing Keith’s hand and pulling him along as they stumble up the stairs and into Keith’s bedroom, locking together again at some point along the way, even though it makes them knock into doorframes and walls.

When Keith feels the edge of his bed bump into the backs of his knees, he lets himself fall back onto it. It creaks loudly as Shiro follows closely, crawling over him to start pressing frantic kisses along his jawline, down his throat. Keith’s hands come to his waist as he lowers himself, covering Keith’s body with his and putting just enough weight on him to make him moan shamelessly, make him hot and dizzy, without crushing his smaller frame.

After sucking what’s sure to be a blood-dark bruise into the curve of Keith’s neck, Shiro pauses, propping himself up on his elbows and looking Keith in the eyes. He smiles, and it looks like more than just because he knows he’s about to get his dick wet.

He slows down after that, no less passionate but calmer, like he’s intent on taking Keith apart, burning him slowly instead of all at once. The thought makes Keith shiver. He tries to pick up the pace again, straining up to capture Shiro’s lips, but the metal hand’s firm grip on his hair holds him back. A smirk plays on Shiro’s lips as he watches Keith squirm, before showing mercy, or so Keith thinks. He leans back in and takes Keith’s lips, moving them together thoroughly, commandingly, setting the pace. His tongue dips into Keith’s waiting mouth, stroking against his own but pulling back before it’s really enough, and Keith has just enough self-possession left to hold back his whine. He nips at Keith’s kiss-swollen bottom lip, licks at it teasingly as his free hand starts to slid up under his shirt, making his stomach jump with sensitivity.

“What do you want?” he rumbles low against Keith’s mouth, and he almost wants to roll his eyes, because it should be pretty damn obvious.

Instead, he simply groans, craning his head back and bucking his hips up into Shiro’s.

The chuckle that earns him is dangerous, but the quick kiss on his cheekbone says otherwise.

“Okay baby,” – Keith shudders at the nickname – “I’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”

His hand continues its path up Keith’s stomach to his ribs, pushing his shirt up as it goes, and Shiro leans back slightly to watch, licking his lips at what he sees.

When he reaches his chest, he passes a thumb lightly over one pink nipple, making Keith gasp and jerk.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Shiro mutters, and does it again.

Keith’s painfully hard already, straining in his jeans, and from where their hips are pressed together he can tell Shiro is too.

Like his brain’s finally come back online enough to realize what’s wrong with this situation, Keith finds the edge of Shiro’s shirt and tugs on it with a frown.

“Yeah, alright,” Shiro responds, placating.

Keith knows he asked for it, but he still wants to pout when Shiro sits up to tug his shirt over his head – at least until he gets an eyeful of the view that gets him, which, _damn_. It’s not like there was a lot kept to the imagination by the tight, thin t-shirts Shiro’s been walking around in, but it’s somehow still better than he’d imagined. He doesn’t get nearly enough time to appreciate this fine specimen of a man, though, because as soon as he’s shed his shirt and unbuttoned his jeans, Shiro’s leaning down to pull Keith’s shirt up as well, coaxing him to raise his arms so he can slide it off and toss it to the side.

Shiro’s hands are back on him immediately, just running over all the skin revealed to him, followed by his mouth, pressing hot, wet kisses down the center of his chest. He takes a detour to swirl his tongue around each nipple, and Keith swears he can feel him smile when it pulls a whimper out of his throat, the bastard.

By the time he reaches Keith’s waistband, Keith’s panting, squirming, trying to hold back his more embarrassing noises. He wastes no time in undoing the jeans and tugging them down Keith’s thighs, pulling his boxers with them, exposing him completely. He doesn’t stop until the pants are freed from Keith’s legs, then sits back and just… _looks_.

Calloused hands run up and down his legs, the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.

“Shiro,” he pleads in a whisper.

Tearing his eyes away from their devouring of Keith’s body, Shiro drops down in between his legs, Keith’s thighs naturally falling apart to make room for him, for whatever he wants to do.

It catches Keith by surprise when Shiro’s tongue licks a hot, wide stripe up the underside of his cock, wrenches a cry from his chest.

“Fuck, so sensitive,” Shiro murmurs, and Keith take solace in the fact that he sounds just as bad.

He takes the head into his mouth gently, swirls his tongue around it and applies just the right amount of pressure to make Keith’s eyes roll back in his head. “Ah!” he gasps, hand flying down to run through Shiro’s hair, for which he gets an appreciative hum.

Shiro takes him further into his mouth, bringing one hand up to wrap around the base, the other to grasp his hip, fingers digging into the meat of it. It’s wet and messy, enthusiastic and so, so good. So much.

Keith can’t take it anymore, so he wrangles his mouth around words, with significant effort.

“Please, Shiro, I – _mmm_ , god I – I need…”

Shiro pops off of his dick so he can growl low in his throat and ask “What do you need, baby? I’ll give you what you need,” before pressing a wet kiss to the crease of his inner thigh, which feels better than it has any right to.

“Want you inside me,” Keith moans without thinking about it, but he realizes he does. He does so badly.

Shiro stares at him, pupils blown and lips slick with spit, and just nods. He pushes himself up to work his own jeans off, and when his boxers slip off with them and his cock springs free, Keith’s jaw drops. Shiro’s… _big_. All over, apparently. Keith swallows thickly. He’s pretty sure his mouth is watering, but he has higher priorities right now. His dumbstruck expression must be obvious because Shiro’s looking pretty smug, and he reaches down to stroke himself a couple times just for show.

Impatient, Keith wraps his legs around Shiro’s waist and tries to pull him in, digging his heels into the small of his back and almost pouting until Shiro gives in and leans back over him so their chests are pressed together, sticking slightly from sweat.

“Someone’s eager, huh?” Shiro teases, nosing into the corner of his jaw, kissing under his ear hungrily, bringing his attention back to Keith’s mouth and stuffing it with his tongue before he can retort.

“Where’s the lube?” Shiro whispers when he lets Keith breath again. It takes Keith a minute to parse the question because Shiro’s just constantly touching him, free hand always running up and down his side, clutching at his hip, stroking his thigh. It’s scrambling his brain.

When he manages to figure it out, he grunts in the direction of his bedside table. Shiro reaches over, stretching with his long arm so he doesn’t have to stop touching Keith, and digs around in the drawer until he finds the bottle, and the condoms too, which Keith actually kinda forgot he had in there. Normally, Keith would hate someone going through his things, but he’s too blissed out and horny to care whatsoever.

As he spreads some of the lube on the fingertips of his flesh hand, Shiro’s eyes keep flicking back to Keith, like he can’t decide which to give his attention to, and once he’s clicked the cap closed and tossed it back down on the bed, he’s right back on top of Keith, kissing him deep and slow and _hungry_. It’s almost possessive, the way he licks into him, paws at his jaw until he opens it wide and just devours him. It has Keith’s pulse accelerating, his skin growing hot, feeling almost feverish with want.

Keith’s almost distracted enough not to be frustrated that Shiro’s not inside him yet when finally, there’s the cold touch of slicked fingers trailing between his thighs, asking. In answer, Keith spreads his legs open that bit farther and wiggles his hips like he can get those fingers closer to where he wants them.

Shiro sucks his tongue into his mouth at the same time as he strokes over his hole, getting it slick before he pushes one finger in, gentle but unrelenting, and Keith lets a broken moan escape into his mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” he groans, hands flying up to clutch at Shiro’s shoulders, fingers digging into the muscle there. Shiro’s finger is so much thicker than his own, fills him up and stretches him so much better, and this is just what he needed.

It’s been…a while since he’s done this with another person. And even then, his experience is sparse to begin with. And maybe he should be feeling apprehensive, especially considering the sheer size of the thing that’s supposed to be going inside him, but he’s surprised to find that he’s not. Even more surprised that he trusts Shiro.

Shiro pumps his finger smoothly, carefully, working Keith into a trance, kissing away the sweet moans that keep spilling from his lips.

It feels so incredible already, and Keith’s reality has already narrowed down to just the places Shiro’s touching him, the soft, dirty-sweet things he keeps saying as he fingers him, that he’s almost afraid he’ll cease to exist entirely when he actually gets Shiro’s cock in him.

Soon, there’s a second finger nudging at his entrance, and it pushes in slowly, Shiro pulling back to watch his expression. The pleasured whine Keith lets out gets Shiro to make a gruff, choked noise in the back of his throat that almost sounds like an honest-to-god growl and dive in to bite down hard on Keith’s jaw, twisting his fingers as they sink in even further until Keith arches his back with a cry.

It’s hard to wrap his head around, how Shiro’s somehow so attentive and considerate at the same time that he is absolutely filthy. But it’s devastating.

Keith’s noises only rise in volume and frequency as Shiro continues to take him apart, methodically, mercilessly. He’s pretty sure he’s never made some of the sounds that are being pulled out of him before, and he’s not even surprised. Shiro seems to feed off it, echoing Keith’s desperation, groaning about how responsive Keith is, how good, how he can’t wait to make him come.

“I’m ready, god, please Shiro, just fuck me,” Keith bursts out as soon as Shiro’s worked a third finger into him, but he doesn’t pause his motions, continuing to stretch him and give torturous brushes against his prostate.

“Patience,” he chides, smiling against his cheek. “Just need to stretch you out a little more—”

“No, I can take it. I – I like when it hurts a little,” he admits. He knows he’s blushing hard, but he wants it too bad to care.

_That_ gets Shiro’s fingers to stop in their tracks, and just the _look_ that passes over Shiro’s face makes Keith moan.

Eyes dark, he shuffles somehow closer, leaning on Keith’s chest, predatory.

“Oh, is that what you want, baby? Wanna be able to feel me for days? That how you like it?”

Keith’s nodding frantically, gasping as Shiro moves his fingers again and bears down on his prostate, rubbing it with the pads of his fingers in a way that’s so sharply good Keith tries to get away from it, twists his hips helplessly where they’re pinned to the mattress and _keens_.

With a kiss to his lips that’s far too tender for what they’re doing, Shiro gingerly slips his fingers out, leaving Keith to clench desperately around nothing, missing the feeling of being filled already.

It’s upsettingly cold without Shiro’s body heat pressed close against him, even for a moment while he rolls the condom on and slicks himself up. Keith holds back his whine of complaint, though, knows it’s gonna be worth it.

The blunt head of Shiro’s cock prods at his hole and he moans softly just from the anticipation. Shiro’s back over him now, propped on one elbow so he can look Keith in the eyes while he guides his cock to make the first push inside of him.

It takes Keith’s breath away, the feeling of Shiro slowly, gently but steadily making room for himself, stretching him around his thick length. The stretch stings, but it’s delicious, and Keith lets out a throaty moan and throws his head back into the pillow, giving Shiro a golden opportunity to suck messy bruises into the thin skin of his throat, which he takes, enthusiastically.

“Fuck, so tight baby,” Shiro rumbles roughly against his throat.

When he bottoms out, they both moan in tandem. He’s so _full_ , and Shiro’s pressing up against all the right spots inside of him, and his head is spinning.

Shiro waits, painfully still, giving Keith time to adjust as he sucks his earlobe into his mouth, making him shudder, and they both gasp at the shift that causes.

Tired of waiting, Keith takes matters into his own hands and pointedly rolls his hips while one hand grips Shiro’s hip, tugging him forward by the firm muscle of his ass, trying to get him to move.

Pulling back to look at him, Shiro smirks, eyes narrowing, a little wild.

He rolls his hips forward, grinding deep and slow and mean and it makes Keith’s fingernails dig into Shiro’s skin, his other hand clawing desperately at the sheets beneath them.

“ _Ah!_ ”

“Yeah?” Shiro asks, and he can hear the smug smile, even if his eyes are squeezed shut in pleasure.

If Keith thinks he’s losing it now, it’s nothing compared to when Shiro starts moving in earnest, pulling out slowly so his cock drags against Keith’s sweet spot and then thrusting back in smoothly. He starts a rhythm that’s just fast enough to drive Keith wild, just slow enough to keep him right where he wants him. Before he knows it, Keith’s scrabbling at Shiro’s broad shoulders, nails raking lines down his skin. His legs are wrapped around Shiro’s waist, clutching desperately. Shiro’s mouthing at his collarbone, biting down and sucking wet marks all over his chest and neck, and Keith is thankful for the evidence that they’ll leave behind that this really happened.

“Good boy, that’s it, let me hear you,” Shiro murmurs, and Keith realizes the broken noises he’s been hearing are coming from him, but instead of embarrassment, Shiro’s encouragement only makes him louder. The noise seems to spur Shiro on, hips snapping faster and harder now as his metal hand pulls at Keith’s hair just the right amount.

The heat in Keith’s lower stomach is building, and he’s pretty sure he could come from just this, even though his cock has barely been touched. Shiro isn’t letting up, and just when it feels like he might be approaching his peak, Shiro pauses, interrupting his momentum.

“ _Shiro,_ ” Keith whines, but Shiro’s only pausing long enough to change their position, shifting back so he’s kneeling and pulling Keith by the meat of his thighs so they’re spread over his lap. The position gives him more leverage to pound into Keith harder and deeper, lifting him by his thighs and tugging him onto his cock with each thrust. The new angle, with Keith’s back arched off the ground, also aims Shiro’s thrusts straight at his prostate.

Quickly, the coiling in his belly is back, and he can’t help the fucked out little noises that are punched out of him with each thrust, backed by Shiro’s own grunts and low moans.

“So good baby, look at you,” he praises.

Shiro reaches down to run his fingers through Keith’s hair, pushing it off his sweat-covered forehead, then trails his hand down, cupping his cheek and jaw tenderly, despite the rough pounding of his hips. With a drawn out moan, Keith strains to keep his eyes open as they try to flutter closed, and turns into Shiro’s touch, catching the tip of his thumb in his mouth and closing his swollen lips around it.

“Fuck, _Keith,_ ” Shiro growls, pushes his thumb in further so Keith can lave over it with his tongue, suck on it mindlessly.

Keith’s breath hitches after a series of thrusts rub him just right, and he calls out Shiro’s name, muffled around his thumb.

“Gonna cum,” he gasps, mouth hanging open helplessly now, eyes squeezed shut, brow knit in pleasure.

“Cum for me, yeah that’s it, come on.”

The world goes white for a few drawn out moments as he comes, spilling hot against his belly, clenching down on the cock still pumping inside of him, drawing out his orgasm.

Shiro’s slowed to a rocking roll when Keith regains the ability to communicate, or at least enough to pant, “Inside, cum inside me.”

Falling forward to capture Keith’s lips in a hungry, sinful kiss, Shiro obliges, fucking him through the aftershocks of his orgasm and faltering as his own breathing starts to hitch. Keith’s too blissed out and overwhelmed to do much of anything, but he lets Shiro take his pliant mouth and moans in encouragement as he chases his orgasm. When he feels Shiro still, pushing in deep and holding there as he groans, Keith wishes he weren’t wearing a condom, wishes he’d be able to feel him dripping out later.

Once he’s recovered enough, Shiro pulls out gently, hand over Keith’s hipbone and thumb rubbing over the skin there soothingly. Keith isn’t quite aware of his environment yet, but he thinks Shiro must take off the condom and get rid of it before he collapses on the bed on his stomach, right next to Keith.

“Mmm,” he hums in Keith’s ear, warm breath tickling him before he presses soft kisses down his neck. Keith agrees.

By the time Keith has come fully back to his body and mutters for Shiro to let him up so he can get something to clean them, he turns his head to find Shiro fast asleep, one heavy arm slung over Keith’s chest. Keith stares at him for a moment, blinking. Shiro starts snoring.

Keith doesn’t exactly know what to do about a giant man who just gave him the best fuck of his life sleeping like a log with his too-long limbs sprawled out all over his small bed, but he can’t exactly kick him out, so he resigns himself to his fate and falls asleep.

The insides of Keith’s eyelids are glowing orange as he comes to, slowly. It’s morning then, and not too early, based on the familiar chirping of birds outside. Thank god.

It’s warm, and not just because of the sun on his face spilling through the window. He never did manage to close the blinds.

There’s a weight on his waist, and as he comes to, it quickly becomes clear that Shiro is very much still in his bed, chest plastered to his back, arm clamped around his stomach, and legs tangled together with his beneath the half-discarded bedsheet. He’s snoring softly into the nape of Keith’s neck, each breath blowing at a little piece of his hair that tickles him.

It’s the first time he’s woken up in bed with someone, Keith realizes. He’s surprised to find he doesn’t hate it.

Keith stretches sleepily, well aware of the soreness in his ass – and it seems like every muscle in his body, for some reason. Worth it.

His movement jostles Shiro and disturbs his slumber, making him grumble and push his face into the crook of Keith’s neck, tightening his arm around him for a moment before he releases him and lets him crawl out of bed to pad on unsteady feet to the bathroom.

Keith does a double-take when he sees himself in the mirror – he looks like he had an encounter with an angry octopus and lost. He runs his fingertips over the marks Shiro’s left on him, the evidence of what will surely be a night he’ll remember forever. Some of them are dark, and he hopes that means they’ll take a long time to fade.

The other evidence, dried and crusting on his stomach, is significantly less appealing, so he wets a washcloth and cleans himself up with a grimace.

When he comes back, Shiro’s fully awake, lying on his back on Keith’s bed, arms over his head, naked and grinning brightly. Keith eyes him somewhat skeptically – he may not be experienced but he’s pretty sure this isn’t the normal follow-up to a quick, dirty fuck with a stranger – but he kneels onto the bed anyway and lets Shiro pull him into a series of contented kisses.

Shiro’s sunny; orange juice and over-easy eggs in the morning. Like a fucking coffee commercial. Instead of it getting on Keith’s nerves, though, he’s finding himself melting into it, giggling – fucking _giggling_ , Keith doesn’t _giggle_ – at Shiro’s bangs sticking straight up in the air, smoothing them down for him. It’s ridiculous. He could gag at himself.

Shiro rolls him over, braces himself on either side of Keith’s shoulders and crouches over him playfully.

“I’ll make you breakfast if you stay,” he jokes.

Keith rolls his eyes. “Well, if you mean heating up a can of beans…in _my_ house…because that’s about your only option.”

Shiro can’t believe Keith doesn’t have proper breakfast food in his house, acts like it’s a personal affront, so he swings onto his bike, pulls Keith on behind him, and drives them, kicking up clouds of dust, to the closest convenience store.

They stumble back out with their arms full of egg cartons, milk and bread and bacon, plus a stupid little plastic lei that Shiro insisted on buying and throwing around Keith’s neck while Keith had too much in his hands to stop him.

Shiro strips back down to his boxers when they get back instead, while Keith’s unpacking their spoils.

When Keith gives him a look, Shiro shrugs.

“What? It’s just wrong to make eggs in the morning in clothes.”

Shiro cooks as Keith brews coffee and watches, a little lost. They navigate sharing the kitchen smoothly, somehow avoiding running into each other in the cramped space.

Apparently Shiro knows what he’s doing in the kitchen just as much as he does in the bedroom because the food is _good_ , and they eat mostly in silence at the kitchen table, basking in it. It’s quiet, comfortable. Shiro’s sweet enough to try to cover his grimace when he tastes the coffee.

Keith’s mind wanders to the day ahead of him, the things he should get done. He’d have no problem letting them all fall to the wayside in favor of spending the rest of the day rolling around in bed with Shiro, if he’s being honest. And Shiro doesn’t exactly seem in any hurry to get going.

Once they’ve eaten their fill, refueled from their escapades the night before, Keith’s standing at the kitchen sink washing the dishes when Shiro steps up behind him, presses against his back and wraps his arms around Keith’s waist. It could just be innocent, but Keith decides he doesn’t want it to be, melts back into the solid warmth of Shiro’s chest as soon as he feels it and, in a moment of boldness, rolls his hips back. There’s a rumble in Shiro’s chest and he pulls Keith in closer, the mood instantly set.

Keith’s sweatpants are thin enough that he can feel Shiro hard against his ass, and he pushes back into him again, goading. He can still feel him from last night; he shouldn’t want this already. But he does.

Shiro’s hands make their way under Keith’s shirt, warming his skin, running over his stomach, his sides, his ribs. He kisses the corner of Keith’s jaw, hums low in his ear.

“What, didn’t get enough last night?” Shiro teases, but his voice is far from joking.

Keith turns off the faucet, no longer interested in doing dishes. He leans his head back against Shiro’s shoulder and shakes his head, biting his lip as Shiro seizes the chance to nip at his exposed throat. An arm around his front keeps Keith pinned against Shiro’s chest, but he cranes his head around so they can kiss, hot and slow.

Shiro’s free hand, still exploring under his shirt, skates low, brushing his waistband.

Without ceremony, Keith’s sweatpants are yanked down to just below his ass. Shiro rocks into him pointedly, his hard cock slipping in between his cheeks, separated only by the fabric of his boxers, and Keith moans his encouragement. Without breaking their kiss, Shiro gets a hand between them and palms at his ass. Two fingers find his hole and prod at it, and it’s only when he feels it that Shiro breaks away to bite Keith’s bottom lip, groaning.

Keith gasps because he feels it too, how wet he still is with lube, how easily he opens around both of Shiro’s fingers at once, barely any resistance. They both moan as those fingers sink into him, scissoring just to see how open he really is.

“Fuck, Keith,” Shiro pants. “You’re still open for me, huh? Just walking around ready to take it again?”

“Yeah,” Keith gasps, his grip on the counter in front of him going white-knuckled.

Shiro’s fingers are thrusting in and out of him messily and he leans over him, forces him forward with his chest so Keith is slightly bent, praying his arms don’t give out under him.

His fingers slip free too abruptly, making Keith clench down around nothing with a strangled noise. Shiro leans his forehead against the nape of Keith’s neck, pausing.

“I’m gonna have to run get a condom and the lube,” he points out, reluctantly.

“No,” Keith hurries, one hand shooting back to grab Shiro’s wrist and keep him there, because the thought of Shiro leaving right now is unacceptable. “It’s okay, I don’t care, please, just…”

It’s stupid, he knows, but he’s not exactly thinking with his brain anymore, and he wants to feel him so badly.

After a moment, Shiro must agree, because he springs back into action, leaving a kiss on the nape of Keith’s neck before he steps back enough to free his cock from his boxers, slicking it with spit – there’s not a need for much more than that, with the state of Keith as it is.

Keith clutches at the edge of the counter in anticipation; part of their position means that he doesn’t know exactly what Shiro’s doing, when to expect him to thrust in.

Shiro’s got one hand firmly on his hip, keeping him in place, and once he’s ready the other slides up under Keith’s shirt to his lower back, pressing him into a slight, arched bend forwards over the sink. Shiro follows to bite into Keith’s shoulder.

“Ready, baby?” he asks, barely getting it out before Keith’s nodding enthusiastically.

He leans back again to palm roughly at Keith’s ass with one hand, pulling a cheek aside to expose his hole, thumbing over it. He dips the tip of his thumb in, pulls him open a little and groans.

Shiro thrusts in in one smooth slide until he’s fully seated, filling Keith to the brim and giving him only a moment to get used to it before he’s fucking into him steadily. One hand stays on his hip, where there is definitely going to be a new set of bruises, and the other lands splayed out possessively on his lower stomach.

“Oh fuck, Shiro!” Keith cries out.

“Good?”

“ _Mmm,_ yeah, good, uhn, _fuck!_ ”

Neither of them is going to last long; Keith’s already got stars behind his eyes and Shiro’s unrelenting, bypassing any teasing and just fucking Keith as good as he’s got. He doesn’t care that he’s sore; everything is too good and it’s almost overwhelming how quickly it overtakes him. Shiro constantly has his mouth on him like he can’t stand to not be tasting his skin, and he’s hitting him just right, and just the fact that he’s getting fucked hard by someone he met two days ago against his kitchen sink makes him moan from deep in his chest.

Glancing up, Keith happens to catch a glimpse of their reflection in his kitchen window . He looks so debauched – cheeks flushed, lips bruised, eyes glazed over, jolted with every thrust from behind him, and when his eyes slide to the fainter reflection of Shiro over his shoulder, teeth clenched in a grunt, he starts to come apart.

Just then, Shiro moves the hand on his belly to wrap around his cock, and he probably wouldn’t have even needed it, but after a couple of good strokes he’s coming hard, spilling into Shiro’s hand. He clenches hard around Shiro and he’s not far behind, falling against his back with a grunt once he’s finished.

Shiro waits a minute before he pulls out, just lets himself soften inside Keith while they breath together, keeps them joined together. When he does, though, he can feel the cum starting to trail down his inner thighs already, and he bites his lip because _god_ , that feels better than it should. Shiro must like it too, because he trails his fingers through the mess leaking out of his entrance, and Keith turns his head just in time to catch him putting them in his mouth, licking it off almost curiously. Keith honestly doesn’t even think he has the capacity to process that right now, so he just gapes and shakes his head, and decides to file that memory away for later.

With a casual pat to his ass that almost makes Keith laugh, Shiro pulls his sweatpants back up and tucks himself back into his boxers, only to wrap his arms around Keith again and lean his heavy weight against him.

“Nap now, I think” Shiro mumbles against his shoulder between kisses, followed by a yawn for emphasis.

Keith’s quickly starting to understand that Shiro’s a useless ragdoll after he comes, not that he can blame him.

After the nap, he’ll probably head off – all this has been stolen time, anyway. Keith braces himself.

Shiro doesn’t leave after the nap.

He sticks around for lunch (really a mid-afternoon snack, since they spent so much of the day dozing), and afterwards, when Keith says he should really get some work done, he follows him around the junkyard, asking somewhat unhelpful questions but providing helpful muscle.

Shiro’s motorcycle’s sitting parked out front, and Keith eyes it as they pass. He’s a bit bemused, isn’t sure what to do with this man who won’t seem to leave his house. But he can’t really bring himself to _want_ to do anything about it.

He doesn’t leave that night either. Fucks Keith within an inch of his life instead. There are stars in his eyes, might never stop walking with a limp at this rate. If Shiro’s sticking around much longer, he’s at least gonna need to buy a sturdier bed.

The next day, a man from a couple towns over comes to sell a broken down truck, and Shiro watches Keith haggle with him. He gets a good price, too. The huge, muscly man hovering behind him menacingly probably doesn’t hurt. That’s an unforeseen bonus of having Shiro around.

Keith’s not used to have another person in his orbit.

It’s strange, but…not bad. Somehow, Keith’s hackles aren’t going up. He isn’t feeling prickly, isn’t annoyed by this cheerful giant in his space. It doesn’t feel like an intrusion.

He’s still confused, though. Slightly suspicious. Doesn’t understand what Shiro’s angle is, how he doesn’t have something better to do. The thought crosses his mind that maybe Shiro’s using him, trying to weave his way into his home because he doesn’t have anywhere else to go – but it’s gone quickly. Keith knows it’s not true.

It’s confusing, but his heart is starting to tickle. He’s starting to hope, though for what, he’s not sure.

Shiro whistles to himself sometimes. It’s ridiculous.

He has this way of getting Keith to talk, of learning about him without prying, without setting off Keith’s hair-trigger defenses. They talk in soft tones, nothing louder needed in the quiet, close quarters. Easy chatter fills the empty spaces in his house for the first time, and it almost seems like the sun spilling through the windows is brighter.

Shiro keeps finding things around the house to fix – a loose floorboard, a flickering lightbulb, a leaky faucet. Keith grumbles that he could easily do all that himself – and he _could_ , he’s just sort of…never noticed anything was wrong. Smiling, Shiro grabs his cheeks and pecks him on the lips and tells him he’s sure he could, and probably better, and that his house is charming and perfect the way it is. And then proceeds to fix it anyway.

One day, Shiro comes along with him on a trip to scavenge for good scraps to bring home. Keith teaches him what to look for, and Shiro’s an eager student, bringing him rusty pipes and ancient-looking cast iron pans and holding them out to him for evaluation like a damn golden retriever.

Another time, Shiro tugs him along by the hand and pulls him onto his bike and they go for a joy ride at sunset, Shiro whooping and Keith clutching tight around his waist and chuckling at his antics, enjoying the feeling of wind whipping the loose strands of hair that come out from under his helmet. His heart feels airborne, a seabird riding a thermal.

They’re lying in bed one evening, tangled up in the sheets that never seem to be neat anymore with how often they mess them up. Shiro’s cuddled up against him, pillowing Keith’s head with his bicep. His fingers trace lazy circles into Keith’s stomach as they bask in the afterglow. Keith’s still trying to catch his breath, is pretty sure his cheeks are still flushed, even though it’s been several minutes already.

Shiro must be thinking the same thing, because he smirks.

“I don’t know what it is,” he muses with a just-because kiss to Keith’s cheek, “but sex with you is so…different from how it’s ever been with anyone else. So much better. It blows my mind every time.”

Blinking sleepily, Keith hums his agreement, at least to the last part. “I don’t really have much to compare to,” he admits without thinking, brain too mushy to be embarrassed. “I’d only had sex a couple times before, but yeah, this is definitely way better,” he concludes, shifting onto his side and pressing closer to Shiro, nuzzling into his chest. He’s warm.

Shiro wraps an arm around him easily, turns to broad strokes up and down Keith’s back. He’s quiet for a moment, and it takes Keith’s brain a while to catch up and realize why.

He pulls back with a start, looks to Shiro’s face to gauge how he’s reacting to that bit of information he accidentally divulged. His expression is considering, not judging, just surprised. Keith relaxes slightly. Still, he brings his hands up to cover his face and buries it back in Shiro’s chest with a groan. He really hadn’t meant to tell him that.

“Hey, hey,” Shiro chuckles, holding him tight so he feels the rumble of it in his chest, one hand coming up to stroke at the inside of his wrist but not trying to pull his hands away. “That’s really hot, I’m not gonna lie. I’m definitely too tired to go again but I don’t think my dick knows that.”

Sure enough, Shiro’s starting to plump up against his thigh, and Keith loosens his hands from his face a little.

“I just…” Keith starts to explain, though Shiro hasn’t asked him to, won’t ask him to. He’s trying to find the words, to be honest, like he somehow wants to be with Shiro – a fact that still bewilders him. “I’ve never been very good with…people.” He says the word like it’s some strange concept he’s never quite gotten the hang of. And it kind of is. But Shiro doesn’t seem to think so. “It – I grew up mostly in foster care, and I guess I…it was hard to learn that stuff. I’m not sure I ever really did.”

It’s more than he ever would have imagined divulging to someone a few days ago, but despite the way it makes his heart race nervously, he isn’t actually afraid.

Shiro hums his understanding, not an agreement, but an acknowledgement and acceptance. Keith peeks through his fingers, finally moves them to rest on Shiro’s chest instead and looks up so he can see his face. He smiles, his eyes still thoughtful, searching, without taking more than Keith is willing to offer. He dips in and gives Keith a kiss.

“Well for what it’s worth, you’re pretty good with me.” He says it lightly, with a playful, slightly mischievous smile, like he knows getting too serious would be too much for Keith right now, but still wants him to know how he feels.

For a while, they lie in silence, Keith just floating off into the feeling of warmth, of the stroking of Shiro’s thumb against his ribs, steady as a metronome.

Then, Shiro speaks again, looking up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

“After I lost my arm, it took me a long time before I was comfortable having sex with anyone again. I felt like anyone in their right mind would be put off by it, wouldn’t want to see me naked – wouldn’t even want to be touched by the prosthetic, really. It was one of the hardest things to get over.”

Keith gives it a moment, realizes that Shiro’s trusting him with something important.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Keith echoes, “I don’t think there’s anything that could make you not the hottest person ever.”

That gets a laugh out of Shiro from deep in his belly, and it shakes the bed.

“Plus,” Keith continues, sitting up with a start, “the technology is amazing! I mean, the advancements we’ve seen in recent years are lightyears ahead of where we thought we’d be right now…”

“Oh, so the strong-and-silent cool guy has a nerdy side, huh?” Shiro chuckles.

Keith rolls his eyes, blushing, but they spend the next hour talking about robots and computer-biology interfaces until Shiro just up and falls asleep which, okay, he has to admit he held on longer than usual.

They figure out they share a love for the stars, the open sky, for everything that’s out there. As soon as a good clear night rolls around, Keith takes Shiro up onto the rusty tin roof of his house and they lay up there side by side, stargazing, passing facts and knowledge back and forth.

It’s such a serene night, and he’s so relaxed, that it loosens his lips, gets him to talk more. Shiro listens, patiently, not interrupting or pressing for details, as Keith opens up about his past, about his dad’s death, getting shuffled through an endless parade of foster houses, feeling like he really must be fucking something up if nobody wants to keep him. Shiro doesn’t try to argue with his feelings, lets Keith have the space to talk and encourages him, but he finds his hand in the dark and holds it tenderly, giving it a squeeze or thumbing over the back of it every so often. He tells him about how he’d had dreams of going to college, studying the stars, maybe even going out there one day, but with his situation, spat out on his own as soon as he turned eighteen, it just wasn’t in the cards for him.

When he’s finished, Shiro offers some pieces of himself, too. Painful memories, happy ones, things he likes and doesn’t like. It makes it feels equal, like an exchange. Shiro never asks Keith for more than he wants to give him. Falling asleep on Shiro’s chest under the night sky, Keith feels like his story might not be written yet.

It’s been two weeks now, since a motorcycle spewing black smoke rolled into his front yard.

Shiro still hasn’t left. Keith’s starting to hope he won’t.

Eventually, though, Keith’s nerves start to get to him. It’s been unspoken, whatever’s going on, and he’s never felt comfortable with reading between the lines with people. He doesn’t like the uncertainty. Doesn’t like not knowing where things really stand.

It’s been putting him on edge, making him second-guess himself. And if he’s on edge, that means he’ll start getting defensive, like he always does, and he’ll snap at Shiro and that’ll be it, he won’t want to stick around anymore.

Before he can spiral completely though, or get upset enough to just _ask_ , Shiro steps in.

One morning, he’s making pancakes while Keith stews on the other side of the kitchen counter, glaring over his hot mug of coffee at the perfect man with bedhead who’s cooking him breakfast like it’s no big deal, like caring for someone like that without asking for anything in return is just totally normal. He can feel himself tensing, a hair away from lashing out, but before he can, Shiro’s crossing the kitchen until he’s right in front of him, right in his space, and he gently takes his face in both hands, coaxing Keith to look up at him.

“Hey,” he says softly, concerned but smiling. “What’s going on in there?”

Keith frowns, eyes darting away because he can’t answer that. Like the traitors they are, they glance tellingly at the motorcycle parked outside the window. Shiro waits and his eyes find their way back eventually.

When they do, Shiro’s expression has shifted. His eyes are earnest as his thumbs stroke Keith’s cheekbones. His face is serious, open.

“Keith. I like you. I like being around you, and talking to you, and having sex with you.”

Keith blushes, not that he didn’t know that, but…

“I’m not going to try and take anything you don’t want to give me. But speaking only for myself, I don’t want to leave. If you’ll have me.”

Keith will.

Later, in bed, because where else could they be, Keith’s mind is working a mile a minute, despite being melted into a pile of goo by Shiro’s dick a few minutes earlier.

He’s lying back pretty much on top of Shiro, using his broad chest as his own personal backrest, letting his limbs be loose and languid and starfished across his bed. Shiro doesn’t seem to mind; he’s wound one arm around Keith’s middle, the other playing with his hair. It’s a nice feeling.

Shiro’s announcement is good news, obviously, and Keith’s still not really ready to attempt wrapping his head around the real, emotional weight of it, but he’s nothing if not practical, so the first thing he has are some questions.

“What are you going to do for work, staying here?” Keith asks the ceiling. It’s the middle of nowhere, after all; there’s nothing worthwhile in any of the nearby towns and Keith doesn’t even really have good internet in his house.

Shiro hums noncommittally in response but doesn’t answer, and after a minute of silence Keith twists around until he’s facing Shiro, elbows propped on his chest. When he raises an eyebrow at him, Shiro shrugs and looks off to the side, and if Keith didn’t know better he’d say he actually looks a little _shy_. After another minute, he sighs.

“Well, after the accident – where I lost my arm – I was actually compensated with…uh, quite a large sum of money. I, uh, I don’t really need to work. At least I could get away with it for a pretty long time.”

Keith blinks dumbly at him, processing the information. It’s certainly an unexpected turn of events. He laughs suddenly to himself at how wrong his fleeting worry that Shiro was just mooching off him was.

“I mean, I’m sure I’ll want to, eventually. I’ll get bored without work. But…” he trails off, looking at Keith now. Instead of continuing his thought right away, he pulls Keith forward by the arms so he slumps down against Shiro’s chest, laying on him again. He traces patterns on Keith’s shoulder blades, and Keith can tell he’s thinking, so he lets him.

“Do you think you want to stay out here forever?” He asks eventually, carefully, like he doesn’t think Keith should answer one way or another, wants his genuine feelings.

Keith considers the question for a moment, but he knows he doesn’t. He figured he probably would, but not really out of choice. Just a lack of options for anything else.

“No, I mean…I – I don’t think I really _wanted_ this in the first place, but…”

Shiro nods, doesn’t make him explain. He understands, or at least can piece enough together from what Keith’s let him know about him so far.

“I – I think my biggest dream, someday, would be to go to college like I always wanted to. I’ve actually been saving up as long as I’ve had this place.”

_But it didn’t really ever feel possible_ , is the unspoken end to that sentence. Not just because of the money, but…the thought of leaving this life of isolation, of going somewhere so busy, full of people he’s never had any idea what to do with, always seemed like an insurmountable barrier. Now, though…maybe it isn’t. 

Shiro hums, rubbing his cheek on the top of Keith’s head. “I’ve thought about going back to school someday, too. I never ended up finishing after losing my arm derailed everything, but it’s never too late.”

Keith likes that. Maybe it’s true.

They lie in silence for a while, then, both just processing, and probably, hopefully, coming to the same conclusions.

Eventually, they disentangle themselves and stumble out into the kitchen for a mid-afternoon snack – they missed lunch in the aftermath of Shiro’s declaration. As Keith’s shoving his sandwich into his mouth, Shiro gets a considering look that quickly puts a glint in his eye. It’s as exciting as it is nervewracking.

Before Keith can ask what it is, Shiro rests his elbows on the counter and leans towards Keith with a conspiratorial look.

“Have you ever wanted to travel?” Shiro asks.

He has.

Shiro’s bike is parked outside, he can see it through the window, and it no longer seems like it’s waiting to take Shiro away from him.

Keith nods. “Well, let me finish my sandwich at least.”

Shiro grins brightly, and Keith has to squint. He’ll claim it’s because of the sun glinting off the motorcycle through the window. It isn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on twitter @sweetfirewrites :)


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